Who am I kidding? I'm not Katniss
by Flute Domination
Summary: My name is Elizabeth Greene. I live in twenty-second century America. Whose bright idea was it to make all fifty-one states send tributes to the Hunger Games?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: This is all OCs, except for some mention of Hunger Games characters. The main reason this is a fanfic is because the idea of the Hunger Games is not mine. Also, this is not meant as an insult to the government or anybody working for any government. It is merely an extreme what-if exploration. That said, I hope you like the story.**

Chapter One: I have a mockingjay pin, and that's cool.

Dear World,

My name is Elizabeth Bennett Greene. My parents named me after Elizabeth Bennett from that really old book called _Pride and Prejudice_. I've read it three hundred times, but I still can't grasp why a realtor and a lawyer would name their daughter after a character from _Pride and Prejudice_.

I tested out of high school at the end of this school year, my sophomore year. I have a job at a horse academy and I'm going to take online community college classes in my free time.

I read the Hunger Games when I was in the third grade. I didn't understand them, so I read the whole series again last year, right before the books started disappearing. They weren't available online as ebooks anymore. Half the websites on the Internet were gone, including the horse ranch website. The books disappeared from the library one by one. The librarians said they had been checked out and never returned, and the books were becoming too expensive to replace all the lost ones. How a lot of kids have been getting the stories is by passing around an antique copy that eventually "gets lost under someone's bed" and is never seen again.

The films began to disappear that year also, the year the books went. Several major film companies shut down, and everyone knows now that it wasn't for financial reasons. Computer companies were sinking as well, for no apparent reason. Computers became way expensive all of a sudden. The cost of everything went up, as America stopped importing foreign products and had only itself to rely on.

Let me tell you about the end of this world and the beginning of another. It's important that you know. _Just in case._

May the odds be ever in your favor.

Sincerely,

Elizabeth Greene

* * *

I'm sixteen years old today. It's the last day of my sophomore year of high school, my last year of high school ever. I passed the test with flying colors, so I figured, why stick around and waste time learning stuff I don't need to know? They don't teach you the meaning of life in school. Maybe that's something that can't be taught.

I get out of bed, get dressed in my special birthday skirt and blouse with sky-high heels. I curl my bleach-blond hair, brush my teeth, dab on some makeup, grab my bag, don't bother to eat breakfast. I'm out the door before my little brother is even awake. You see, my best friend and crush, James Hirste, is taking me to breakfast for my birthday. He's supposed to pick me up on his bike around now. We're not going anywhere fancy. Just Denny's (which I'm told has been around for more than a hundred years), one of the few restaurants still afloat, for some eggs and bacon. And maybe a milkshake, since he knows milkshakes are my favorite food in the world.

A few minutes later, James rides up to my house. I hop off the porch swing and join him on the sidewalk. "Your carriage awaits, Madam," he says in a funny accent, bowing. He looks the same every day, and it's something I like about him. Different color shirt, different shade of blue jeans maybe, but his face is always the same: thick curly brown hair, sideways smile, and perfect black eyes.

"Brain bucket?" he offers, un-strapping a neon blue helmet from his backpack. He wears his own grey helmet, and we've ridden to school together so many times before that I just give him my helmet to keep at his house. I would lose it in two seconds in my room. I recently found a chewed-up Barbie doll head.

I put on the helmet and sit on the front handlebars of the bike.

It's 7:45 when we get to the restaurant. School starts at eight sharp. Inside, we claim a booth and order what we always do. We've been to breakfast here at least four times together, and lunch about twice. Since freshman year we've gone on his birthday, my birthday, and the minimum day before Christmas break. On his birthday, I pay the bill and pedal the bike. On my birthday, he pays the bill and pedals the bike. Every other day, we split the cost and he powers the bike.

The first real conversation of the morning begins when James says, "Happy birthday. I see you're wearing the monstrosities again."

He means the shoes. "For the last time, James, they're not monstrosities."

"Anything that manages to make you as tall as me is a monstrosity. So, what finals do you have today? English and math, right?"

"Yeah. Fun. Lucky you, with P.E. and history."

"Lucky? Do you know how far we have to run?"

"Yes. I did it yesterday. It's actually not that bad."

"Easy for you to say; you're practically a track star. Besides, math and English should be nothing for you, o thou of brilliance suited to test straight out of high school. By the way, can I ride the ponies at the stable for free? Or at least get a discount on lessons?"

I laugh. "Only if they like you." There isn't much to talk about until we get to school. Two minutes before the tardy bell. My class is all the way across campus from the bike racks. _Now_ I wish I hadn't worn the monstrosities. I jump off the bike and say goodbye to James.

"See you after school," he says. "I'll give you your present then."

I hurry to Pointless Essay-Writing 101 and quickly grow impatient for school to let out. After I finish my exam, I let my mind wander. Weird things are going on. The newspapers said yesterday that the United States has stopped trade with China entirely, YouTube is shutting down, and Apple is going bankrupt. I think about communism for a while, and what I wrote about it for the essay question on my history test two days ago.

After school, I meet James at the bike racks and we ride to my house. As usual, my parents aren't home yet but James comes inside anyway. We both get a glass of orange juice and sit at the kitchen table.

James slides a tiny package of tissue paper with a pre-made bow over the table to me. I carefully peel the tape away and unwrap a beautiful shiny brass pin. A mockingjay pin. They're really rare now that everything Hunger Games-related has been disappearing off the face of the earth. "Where did you get this?"

"Bought it from a tiny comic shop in Nebraska for less than it's worth now. I thought you might like it since you really like the books. Are yours gone?"

"No. I still have them. And I've hid them in a place nobody's ever going to look."

"Where?"

"I can't tell you. For all we know, the house could be bugged and someone in the Hunger Games removal squad could be listening. I won't get this stolen, though. You can be sure of that."

We talk for another half hour, eat leftover pizza for lunch, and then James leaves just as my little brother William comes home. My parents seriously would have named him Fitzwilliam after Mr. Darcy, but the doctors said that name was too long. Honestly, I think they just wanted to save a poor little kid from going through life in the twenty-second century with a name as ridiculous and old as Fitzwilliam.

My brother is in the fourth grade, nine years old. There are so many years between us because Mom had a miscarriage when I was four. We don't know what gender that baby would have been because Mom likes to wait until the baby is born to find out. It makes for some interesting stories when people ask you what your name would be if you were a boy and you have to say with a straight face, "Fitzwilliam." My brother's name would have been Jane.

So we're Will and Elizabeth, the pair that used to be the most common names in the world, not to mention the fact that they're in Pirates of the Caribbean, which I think is originally from the early 2000s, but they remade it a few years ago. Good thing, too. The effects in that old one were horrible.

"Lizzy!" Will calls from the front door.

"Yeah? I'm in the kitchen!"

Will walks into the room with this huge grin on his face. That eyetooth on the left is finally growing back in. He's sopping wet and drips water on the wood floor. He proudly announces unnecessarily, "I got wet!"

Every year at his elementary school, the last day is a water day. "Will, you're dripping water all over the place! Go back outside and dry off!" I slide out of my monstrosities (not because they hurt my feet but because I don't want to slip and fall) and get up to grab some towels. While Will is outside, I mop up the floor and put the towels in the laundry room. Then I go out onto the porch. Will is sitting on the porch swing.

"I'm telling Mom that James was here with you alone."

Technically speaking, I'm not allowed to have anyone over when my parents aren't home. Mom enforces that rule more about having guys in the house, even though the only guy who would be here is James and she knows and trusts him.

"Fine, then I'm telling Mom that you sat on her porch swing cushion and got it all wet." Will gets up and spits in his hand.

"I won't tell if you don't." He holds out his hand for me to shake.

"Who taught you how to spit-swear?"

"I saw some of the sixth graders do it! Come on, Lizzy!"

"Fine." I spit in my hand and we shake. "Stay out here a bit longer. Want some pizza?"

"Yeah!"

"Okay. I'll be right back out. Sit on the steps." I go back inside the house, wash my hands with double soap twice, and heat some pizza in the microwave.

The rest of the afternoon is pretty normal. It doesn't feel like the last day of school, except that I have no homework. No homework whatsoever. I'm out of high school forever. That's kind of a scary thought.

I sit in my room texting my friends forever. Facebook went down earlier today. I'm glad I had all my pictures saved to my computer.

My mom comes home at five from her attorney office downtown. Dad comes home at six. We all eat dinner at seven. Will goes to bed at eight-thirty. I go to bed at ten-thirty, texting all my friends that I need to be well-rested so I don't fall off the horses tomorrow.

I pin the mockingjay pin James gave me to the inside of my pillowcase, and I flip over my pillow so the thing doesn't stab my face. This pin isn't going anywhere.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: Special trip nobody bothered to tell me about.

I wake up early the next morning to my father's megaphone. "Good morning, good morning! Wake up, sleepyhead! It may only be four AM, but we've got a big day ahead of us! Come on! Up, up, up!" He goes to my brother's room and I can hear him saying the same thing.

I reach into my pillowcase. The pin is still there. I move my feet under the covers. My books are all still there. I sigh with relief.

These books have been passed down in my family since my mother's mother's mother's mother got them when they first came out. That was way back in the twenty-first century. The copyright statement in these books still says 2008, more than a century ago.

"Sorry about your dad," Mom says, walking into my room and sitting on my bed. "He's a bit excited for today."

I notice she's dressed in her fanciest white blouse and black pencil skirt. I can't see, but I know she's wearing hose and her best pumps. Later she'll put on her best blazer and look like she belongs at the White House.

"What's going on today?" I ask her.

"We're driving to Washington D.C., honey. Isn't that exciting? We'll be staying there for a week. It's going to be so much fun! You'd better get up and start packing." She gets up and leaves, closing the door behind her.

Why are we going to Washington D.C.? And _today_? Why weren't we told about this earlier?

I get dressed in the clothes I had set out for the day: jeans, boots, a riding academy polo shirt…

My job! I run downstairs to where Dad is making pancakes. "Dad! My job! I can't go to Washington! I have to work!"

"Don't worry. I took care of it. You start in two weeks."

"Okay. Thanks, Dad." I go back upstairs to pack.

I change out of my riding clothes and into something I can tolerate sitting in the car for seven hours in. Unless we're flying, which is really expensive now.

Going downstairs again, this time in athletic shorts and a school t-shirt, I wonder why Mom is already wearing her suit. Might as well not suffer for seven hours before suffering more through meetings. I hope we'll have time to change. I am _not_ going around Washington in this.

Dad doesn't tell me to change clothes when I get down, so I figure I'm okay for now. Those pancakes really smell good. He put chocolate chips in them.

Mom kisses us goodbye while we're still eating breakfast. Then she leaves for her office.

"So, Dad, why are we going to Washington all of a sudden?" I ask.

"Your mom has a conference and she thought she'd go alone, but I thought we'd all go for a nice family vacation. It'll be fun _and_ educational!" He's doing his realtor voice again. The one that sounds too much like a TV commercial. This kind of voice is what lets me know he's lying. He doesn't want to go to D.C.; he's just going so Mom won't be alone.

"Can't I stay here?"

"By yourself? Sweetie, you haven't even stayed home alone overnight before. I'd be too afraid you'll burn the house down. It's a whole week. And come on! It'll be fun!"

And Vermont isn't fun? I love it here. And here is where James is. I'll have to call him and tell him I'll be gone. And say goodbye. And send him pictures of the ancient Lincoln Memorial, which he's dying to go see. He says there used to be a coin called a penny that's worth one cent but cost more to make so they discontinued it. Anyway, he told me that coin had the Lincoln Memorial on one side, and Abraham Lincoln's face on the other. He showed me a penny once, but it had a shield on the tails side. It was more than a hundred years old; 2011.

After breakfast, I accept the fact that I will not be staying home alone and go to pack. I bring the normal stuff—clothes, toiletries, shoes—and then I get to my books. My tablet goes in my backpack. That has over a hundred books on it, half of which I haven't read. It also has movies, so I can watch those because reading will make me carsick.

Ever since Jimmy Arnold's trilogy and pin disappeared while he was at school one day—he had them on his shelf and when he came home they were gone—I take my books whenever I go on vacation. My pin is already clasped to the inside of my pocket, so I don't need to worry about that. I'm glad we're driving instead of flying, because the metal detectors would pick it up. I won't be able to bring it into the White House because of security, though, and that might be a problem.

Over the past few months, I've devised a way to hide my books and carry them around without anyone knowing what they are. Last year, I got a giant book about European architecture. Or so I thought it was a book. When I opened it, it was actually a box. And it turned out that this box was the perfect size for my Hunger Games books and a pair of socks. The box was a present from James on my fifteenth birthday. I stuff it in my sleeping bag on sleepovers, and carry it in a backpack on other overnighters. Maybe I'm being paranoid about my books being stolen. Or maybe I like being overly precautious. Which is practically the same thing.

I put the books in the box, whose cover James himself designed with a picture of the Sistine Chapel just for me, and I slide it into my backpack. It's foolproof.

We leave in an hour and a half, picking Mom up from her office on the way out of town.

Two hours into the drive, we pull off the turnpike. I ask Dad where we're going. He says we're taking the train the rest of the way; the only way to get directly into the Capitol is by train. We can rent a car there.

Before we board the train, we have to go through something similar to airport security: take off your shoes, watch, belt, phone, put it all in the bins that go through the scanner. I'm worried about going through the metal detector because of the pin. For some reason, I have a strong hunch that the government has something to do with the books and pins disappearing. I'm not a total anti-government theory maniac, but James is somewhat, and he tells me his theories as we ride to school. It started when his books and pin disappeared.

The metal detector doesn't beep as I walk through it, so I try to hide my relief, grab my bags, and move on.

The train is an express, 200 miles an hour, hovering a few inches above electro-magnetic tracks. It's genius theory, and a miracle that it actually works. Where would we be if it didn't? Planes nowadays still use so much fuel.

I finish my movie and don't start another one. Instead, I gaze out the window at the mountainous New Hampshire scenery whipping past us.

Soon the train turns south and we zip along through large cities, then countryside. I fall asleep against the wall. Two hundred miles an hour and the train barely vibrates. You can't feel a thing.

My brother pokes me awake. "Wake up, Lizzy! You can see the White House from here!"

I sit up and look out the window Will is pointing to. There it is, a large white version of the back of a nickel. Glorious and regal.

We check into the hotel and unpack our things. As usual, Will wants to jump right into the pool. Dad lets us go there while Mom has her first meeting at the White House. "What's it about, Mom?" I ask her.

"It's complicated, Liz. I don't think you'd understand."

I'm sixteen. What can't I eventually comprehend?

I take my backpack with a towel, my architecture book, and my tablet to the pool after changing into my bright yellow bikini. If I'm going to be forced to go to the pool with my little brother, I might as well catch some rays.

As I'm slathering on sunscreen, Will does a cannonball. "C'mon, Lizzy! I'll be the Kraken and you be Jack Sparrow!" He does his classic impersonation of the Kraken, waving his arms and legs, and making random blorping noises very loudly.

"Ugh," I say. He's getting me all wet. I'm glad I put my backpack further from the pool. "Hey, Fitzwilliam," I call, using my favorite mocking nickname for him. "How about _you're_ Jack Sparrow and _I'm _the Kraken! YAAAAH!" I jump into the water and dunk him.

"What? Nooo!" We playfight for a while.

This is one of those moments when I absolutely love my little brother. Even if he _is_ an annoying snot most of the time.

We're done when my bikini top almost flies up. I get out of the pool and dry off. Maybe a vacation isn't as bad as I thought it would be.

Oh, it's definitely not nearly as bad. Hot guy at one o'clock. I'd guess he's maybe seventeen, but _ripped_. Abs fit for a big brand ad poster, strong build, but not disproportional. Sunglasses still on, he dives into the pool with sweet agility. I pretend to look at my tablet, but really I'm spying on him. He won't be able to tell; my sunglasses look like mirrors, and I like them because of it. I love being able to look at something without disclosing exactly what I'm looking at.

The guy was my first major discovery of the summer. Because he came into play later in my life.

The second major discovery was the next day when I went with my dad and brother to see the Lincoln Memorial—and it was gone.

* * *

**Review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer (again): This is all OCs, except for some mention of Hunger Games characters. The main reason this is a fanfic is because the idea of the Hunger Games is not mine. Also, this is not meant as an insult to the government or anybody working for any government. It is merely an extreme what-if exploration. That said, I hope you like the story.**

Chapter Three: Whoever added Head Gamemaker to the President's Cabinet needs to be fired immediately.

"Up, up, up!" my dad wakes us up at seven-thirty in the morning. I'm on the second queen-size bed in the suite, and my brother is on the floor in a sleeping bag, much to his whiny discontent. Bonuses of being the eldest.

I half-expect Dad to turn into a really freaky Effie Trinkett and add, "It's going to be a big, big day!" but he doesn't. Maybe I shouldn't sleep with my books. Whatever.

I check under my pillow first thing. The pin is still there, clasped to the inside of the pillowcase. And my box of books is still hugged to my chest.

"Why in the world're you sleeping with an architecture book, Lizzy?" my dad asks.

"I fell asleep reading it." Yeah, right.

"Why isn't it on your tablet? Never mind. Just get up. We're going to see the capitol today." He shakes my brother awake, grabs his clothes, and goes into the bathroom.

I dress in the closet, like I always do in hotels. In this one, there isn't a light inside, but that's okay. It saves me the frustration of having Will turn the light on and off while I'm in there.

I come out in a loose tank top and a pair of shorts. Then I slip into a comfy pair of flip-flops.

Now it comes to The Hunger Games. I clip the pin to the inside of my pocket again and put the book box in my shoulder bag, along with my tablet, cell phone, a notebook, my wallet, a water bottle, and sunscreen.

In half an hour, we are al ready to leave. Dad pre-bought (through the hotel) subway passes, so that's how we'll be getting there.

"Is Mom already in meetings?" I ask as we board a direct-route train.

"Yeah. She left about an hour ago," Dad replies. He pulls Will away from the place where he is standing still staring at a lady with blue skin. And I thought the world was already crazy enough. (Actually, I'm surprised that with all those crazy movies, I haven't seen more Na'vi and Elphabas around.

When we get off the high-speed train, we go up the stairs and emerge in the sun, facing the White House. Looking around right away, I can tell something is missing. There is no building that resembles what used to be on the backs of pennies. There is no tall obelisk facing a long pool. Only a big green lawn crawling with picnicking tourists and long-necked officials in suits.

Dad packed lunch for the three of us in backpacks before we left, so we find a spot in the shade of a newly planted tree that must've been transplanted from somewhere else because it's fully grown already.

It's a big tree with a big hole in the trunk. I try to claim a spot on the non-muddy piece of groundnear the trunk, where I could lean against the tree, but Will claims it first. So I spread out the picnic blanket on the grass with Dad and sit there. Since it's too early to eat lunch, and Will expecially is not hungry because he had one of every pastry at the hotel's "Continental Breakfast," he and Dad go play Frisbee on the lawn while I get Will's spot next to the tree.

"You'd better give it back later, Lizzy!" Will calls back. I have no intention of giving his spot back.

I lean my head back, and it goes into the wide hole in the trunk so far that I can't see the outside world, and everything is dark. Unlike a lot of girls would, I don't mind if I get a few spiders in my hair. I don't hate spiders. I think they're fascinating.

I'm lost in my own thoughts for a while before I hear a voice. A voice coming from inside the tree. I wonder if I'm going insane.

"Thank you, all, for attending this urgent meeting. Your presence here is of the utmost importance to us."

This might get interesting. I take out my phone, set it to record audio, and stick it in on my forehead in the tree trunk. I'll listen to the recording later to determine if I am hearing voices inside my head. And if I'm not, well, let's just say I might be doing something a wee bit illegal.

The man's voice calls out a list of names, and different people respond, "Present."

It surprises me immensely when the man calls out, "Miranda Greene."

"Present." It's Mom. She sounds nervous. And I'm glad I'm recording this.

Once the leader guy has gone through all the names of the attendees, he goes through the list again and asks each person for the name of their firstborn child and the name of that child's best friend of the opposite gender. Mom names me and James.

"Now, I suspect you are all wondering why we are asking you for this information, and why you were called here in the first place, as some of you live thousands of miles away. Well, you are here so we can give you all top-secret confidential information that was only yesterday decided upon by the government. Since all of you were sworn to secrecy upon entering this room, I shall trust that none of this will be repeated. Your children and their best friends will all have the honor of competing in the nation's first annual Hunger Games!"

I can hear the startled gasps from the parents underground. "Gasps" is actually an understatement. There is a thud, which might be someone passing out.

"Yes, it is true. In two years, every child in every state will attend a reaping during which the child of a lawyer and his or her best friend will be 'chosen'" —I could hear the air-quotes— "to compete in the Hunger Games. _I_ will be the Head Gamemaker.

"Now before you become too depressed, let me tell you how this will work. After the reaping, the children will be taken to a training center in a hotel being built right now. They will have one month to train before the Games begin. For the Games, they will be sent to a large open arena with newly developed force field barriers. May I assume that you all read the Hunger Games novels as young adults? Yes? Good. We are doing our best to imitate that kind of setting.

"Believe me when I say that your children will consider this an honor. They will be fighting to prove themselves and they will be praised by their states as heroes. This is the solution to so many problems that are occurring: overpopulation, obesity, stationary lifestyles, laziness, cowardliness, dependence upon technology, and even famine. These Games will take our nation back to the days when bravery and nobility and survival were valued above all else."

"And what about ethics?" someone asks. "Having children kill one another is definitely not ethical, is it?"

"Of course it isn't ethical. But it is for the best. The rules will be announced in two years once they have been fully developed. But we do have one rule already: no Katniss-Peeta actions. Nobody will be amused with a cliché star-crossed lovers act." He laughs. He _laughs._ I don't think I emphasized that enough. _**HE LAUGHS.**_ HE LAUGHS at what he's just done to the lives of one hundred and two kids and their parents.

"No, _please, _sir! Please! My firstborn is only two years old! Please, don't make them do this!" a woman cries out. "No! No! Let me go! Stop!"

"The child will be four by the time the Games start."

A door slams and the woman's cries stop. I wonder what will happen to her. Hopefully they won't harm her.

I can almost see the tears running down the parents' faces. The only reason they aren't yelling like that woman is because they know they'll get thrown who-knows-where if they do.

"Any questions?" the Gamemaker asks. "No? I'll be going, then. You're all dismissed." There's the sound of one chair scraping against a floor, footsteps, a door opening and closing, then silence.

All of a sudden, fifty-one sobs break out.

"My son! He isn't even born yet!" a man chokes out.

"My daughter is in her thirties, married with little kids!"

"My daughter is only sixteen!" Mom. I wish I could slide down this tree and go to her, comfort her, tell her I'm going to win these Games for her and I'll find a way to save everyone else too. But I can't. Nobody must know that I've heard this, I think as I stop my phone from recording more.

But what about James? He has to be warned. We've got two years. We need to work out and learn survival stuff and shoot bows and arrows.

This is why everything Hunger Games has been disappearing. The Gamemakers don't want us to know the stories. That way we won't be prepared.

I have to tell James. Now. I might explode. I want to cry and scream and freak out, yelling "What do I do, world? WHAT DO I DO?" over and over and over again.

But instead, I stay oddly calm and unafraid. I still feel the urgent need to call James, but I can do that later, when there are less people around.

I have to call James. I have to train. I have to stop the Hunger Games.

* * *

The picnic is all too dull now that I've found out I'll be fighting to the death against 100 other kids in only two years. That kind of thought would dampen anyone's mood even on the happiest day.

Dad asks me if I'm alright. I say yeah, I'm fine, just a little tired from school still. I have to work hard not to let on that I know anything I'm not supposed to.

But even Will notices my unhappiness and points it out. He tries to cheer me up by doing a funny dance and making a face and mustache on the tree with potato chips, and I laugh halfheartedly.

He smiles at being able to lighten my mood, and I realize that I'm going to have to talk with him too. Maybe a month before the reaping, so he'll have some time to enjoy what might be our last few weeks together.

There should've been a vote on this. America equals democracy equals everybody votes equals fair. Certainly America wouldn't have elected to instate the Hunger Games. Or maybe everyone's too ingrained in their simulated violence like video games and televidion for them to realize that the Hunger Games won't be cool. This is _serious_, America. We need to learn to take things more _seriously._

I doubt my rights to free speech would be acknowledged now, so:

If YouTube wasn't nonexistent, I would get a passport and post a video about what I heard, including the recording. Then, before anyone could view it, I would ditch my identity somewhere in Europe. And I would live somewhere the FBI could never find me. I would have to bring my whole family and all my friends so nobody would be held hostage. And then I would have to bring everyone, especially innocent people I don't know and would feel sorry for. Or, I could turn up "dead" with a fake body.

But what's the point in thinking all these things? I couldn't stop the Hunger Games even if YouTube _was_ up and running. And I doubt the government would be willing to issue me a passport any time soon.

What's the point in doing anything at all?

Survival. I have to survive. Me and James and that two-year-old and the unborn kid and the girl who has kids of her own. All of us are going to make it.

The odds _will_ be in our favor. And I'll do my best to make sure of that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: This is all OCs, except for some mention of Hunger Games characters. The main reason this is a fanfic is because the idea of the Hunger Games is not mine. Also, this is not meant as an insult to the government or anybody working for any government. It is merely an extreme what-if exploration. That said, I hope you like the story.**

**Longer chapter than usual. Hope you're happy.**

Chapter Four: Telling James

Shorter chapter title than usual. Telling James. It sounds like the title of a dramatic movie or something. And what would there be to tell James? Well, it depends on the genre of movie. Romance? Horror? Fantasy? Sci-fi? Realistic? All of the above?

The rest of the trip to Washington D.C. was all one blur. I took pictures of where the Lincoln Memorial used to stand. I took pictures of where the Washington Memorial used to stand. And the Vietnam Memorial. And all the other million places where memorials used to be. I took pictures of the signs that say all are under repair and rebuilding, which I don't believe.

I wonder if any of the kids I saw at the hotel will be fighting me to the death in two years. I wonder about the guy at the pool, who might as well be this Games' Finnick Odair

I called James back at the hotel. I almost told him everything, but then considered that my phone might be tapped and even if it wasn't, there were certainly cameras everywhere. Maybe even in the bathroom. I'm for sure being watched wherever I go, and that's kind of a scary thought.

On the phone with James (in the bathroom) I told him that there's something he needs to know. And he asked what. And I said I'd tell him when I got back, and I hung up.

And that is why I'm walking the nine blocks to James's house, taking my time to put off the moment I'll have to tell him what I heard.

_He needs to know_, I think, urging myself to walk a tad faster. _He needs to know._

I ring the doorbell and smooth my skirt.

James answers the door. "You hung up on me," he says, a slight smirk on his face.

"Yeah, um, sorry about that."

"I tried to call you back _and_ text you at least ten times after that. Then my mom said to give you some space and that you'd talk when you were ready. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'll be fine. Tired, you know? Travelling." I haven't had a full night's sleep in a week.

"When did you get back?"

"About half an hour ago."

"Really? So you hang up on me, don't answer my calls or texts, and show up at my house half an hour after you get here?"

"James."

"What?" There's a hint of annoyance in his voice. It hurts me. I never want to hear it from him again.

"James."

"_What?_"

How awkward would it be exactly if I said right now that we're going to the real Hunger Games in two years? I take a deep breath. "There's something I need to tell you. But I can't tell you here, since we're probably being watched. Let's go over to someone else's house, okay?"

"Liz, what's with all the secrecy? Why would we be watched? That's ridiculous."

"Well, you know what? A lot of things in this world are ridiculous, James, but you just have to accept them that way!" I didn't mean to add an edge to that.

James backs off. "Okay. How about we go to Ryan's house? He lives just a few doors down."

"That'll be fine."

James tells his parents where he's going and we walk to Ryan's house. I don't know Ryan very well, but from what I've heard about him, he's one of those kids who manage to be smart _and _a popular jock at the same time. I don't know how anyone could do that. It's like he has two sides, or something. Grandma used to say that when she was growing up, there were a lot of those type of kids, but the category has started to fade away. That's one of the reasons I took that one test.

On the way to Ryan's house, James looks at me funny. "Why so tense?"

I almost start crying right then, but I try to keep calm despite the lump in the back of my throat and the stinging in my eyes. "You'll see."

I've seen Ryan at school before, but never talked to him. Ever. So, when he opens the door and James asks if he can come in with me, you can guess the magnitude of the awkward pause there. After an eternity, Ryan lets us in and the three of us sit down at his kitchen table.

I feel kind of bad intruding in Ryan's house and practically using him as a safe zone to transmit confidential government information.

"What's up?" Ryan asks. He looks from me to James.

"Well, Liz wanted to say something, but she wouldn't say it aloud at my house."

Both boys look at me. Intensely.

"I need to tell James in private."

Weird looks from both of them.

"Okay. Do you want to leave the room for a second?"

"Do you still have your Hunger Games books?"

"Yes. I only ever had the first book, and I'm not telling you where it is, but yes. How is that related to this?"

"Never mind that. Can we go into an isolated, quiet room, please?"

Ryan leads us to a room with athletic equipment all over, like a home gym. "Will this be okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Ryan. Sorry for barging in."

"No problem. Glad to help facilitate."

Facilitate _what_, pray? _What_ does he think is going on? He has no idea.

Ryan leaves the room. I close the door behind him and pull out my phone.

"Okay, _now_ will you tell me what this is all about?"

"I won't tell you, but maybe this will explain some. Listen to this." I set the recording on play. We listen in complete silence.

I can't hold in the tears any more. I know I'm sixteen and grownups aren't supposed to cry, but if you were going to be forced to kill or be killed in two years, you would cry too.

When the new Gamemaker says the words, "Hunger Games" I start sobbing silently. I don't want James to see me cry because it's embarrassing. I look at his face; his expression is one of extreme concentration and sadness. He's trying to hide his reaction, but it's obviously not working.

When the recording ends, James keeps staring at the phone. "Lizzy, please tell me this is a really mean, really late April Fools joke."

He looks up at me and sees my puffy red eyes.

"It's not, is it?"

I shake my head and start crying more.

"No, it's not. Come here."

He takes my hands in his and holds them for a second. We stand up from the exercise bench. My heart starts pumping faster.

James holds me and lets me cry into his chest for a few minutes. I can't help but think how comfortable this is.

"It's going to be okay, alright?" he says. Judging by the shaking of his voice, he's choking back tears too. "We're going to survive. We've got two years to prepare. We'll make it. We'll do something to stop the –the Hunger Games, and everyone will live. How did this happen anyway?"

"I don't know, James. I just don't know."

"Well that's great, because neither do I. We need to start training right now if we're going to survive. There's so much we have to learn, and so little time. First things first: we'll go to the library for survival books. Then we'll go to the sports store and get archery supplies. And there are a lot of camps where we can practice living in the wilderness. Then during the school year there's the Adventure Club—" He stops abruptly and looks at me. "You're not going to high school anymore. Dang. And you're working at the horse place."

I nod.

"Less time. There's no time to begin with. We have two years but there's still no time. How cruel is that?" He pauses. "Hey."

I look up at him.

"It's going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay, alright?"

Nod again. Sniffle.

"You don't have to work today, do you?"

"No. It's Saturday. And I don't work on Sundays either."

"Then we'll start tomorrow. Do you have any money?"

The door opens. "What are you kids talking about?" Ryan's dad enters the room, dressed in athletic shorts and a t-shirt. "Hi, James. And who are you?"

"I'm Elizabeth Greene."

"Nice to meet you. If you don't mind, I'm going to…" he waves his hands indicating the machines around us.

"Okay. Sorry to be in your way. We'll be going right now," James says.

I grab my phone and try to make my face look calm and casual. I hope my eyes aren't red, but they probably…

"You alright, kiddo? Your eyes look a bit weepy."

…are.

"I'm fine, thanks. Goodbye."

We hurry to leave, stopping for a second to say bye to Ryan and thank him for letting us use his house. I can tell he still doesn't know exactly what is going on, but maybe that's for the best.

When we get out onto the street, James asks again, "Do you have any money?"

I answer, "Yes, but only a few dollars. But James, there's more."

He stops walking. "What?"

"The Lincoln Memorial is gone."

"What?!"

"And the Washington Memorial and all the other bazillion memorials. It's just one big lawn now."

James puts his head in his hands. "No, no, no…" He sighs. "So, why did we have to go to Ryan's house for this?"

"We're being watched. I think the government is putting cameras in everyone's houses. That's how they know where the books are. We, especially, are being watched every moment because we're the future tributes from Vermont."

"What happened to the Constitution?"

"Out the window, apparently."

"This is so stupid!"

"I know." It's a real rarity that James is ever caught saying something is stupid. Difficult, yes. Complicated, yes. Impossible, maybe. But stupid? Never. He really means it when he says it.

We walk without knowing where we're headed, but eventually we both end up sitting on the swings at the park.

"Hey, James?" I want to tell him. Why do I want to tell him now? If these are the last two years we spend together, I want them to be the best they could be. I want to tell him, right now, exactly how I feel.

"Yeah, Liz?"

My breath catches in my chest. "Never mind."

I think about what this, the Hunger Games, could mean for _us. _I mean, not that there actually _is_ an "us" in this, but hypothetically speaking here. One of us could die. If it was James, I would never be happy again, guaranteed. Or maybe I'm being young and naïve, thinking this will last forever. One of us has to die in the Games, since there can only be one victor and the government won't accept any Katniss-Peeta acting.

Even if it is…real.

Nobody is going to die. I have to keep reminding myself of this. There are going to be one hundred and two victors. And this corrupt system is going down.

But who knows if, when the time comes, I'll have the courage to rebel. If this Hunger Games is going to be anything like the books, we won't be able to just call a cease-fire in the middle. We'll be forced to fight. The Gamemakers will force us to fight in order to "control population numbers." It's a stupid reason. Even James would agree that it's a _stupid_ reason.

America is fine just the way it is. I'll admit that maybe the obesity problem is serious, but it's not nearly as bad as it was, say, fifty years ago. I know. I did research for a health project about it back when the Internet was normal. And how would the Hunger Games solve this problem anyway, especially when they're starting with lawyers' kids and friends?

Conclusion: Violence should never be the solution. Didn't they ever teach the government that in school?

"So, Liz?"

"What?"

"Do you have any money at home? More than ten bucks?"

"Yeah. I don't know exactly how much. Birthday money. Why?"

"How much do bows and arrows cost?"

"Oh. I don't know. I never thought to find out before. Why don't we go to the store and ask?"

"Sure."

I really don't want to get up from the swing, but I do, and we start walking down the street.

I'm getting that feeling again. I want to tell him so bad that my eyes start tearing up. I don't want to cry again. But I can't say anything. All I can do is keep moving and watch his sun-tanned face. His eyes are just so…I don't want to say dreamy, but that might be the most accurate word. They're so sad, and just so _black_. And shiny. It looks as if he's been tearing up too. Not for the same reason as I am, surely.

He turns towards me and I immediately pretend like I was looking forward the whole time. Normally, he would say something funny right now. But nothing is normal anymore. And nothing is funny either.

We get to the sporting goods store, walk inside, and go up to the counter where they sell guns and other dangerous objects.

James clears his throat. "Hello?"

A man with a lot of tattoos comes out from a back room and sees us standing here. Maybe I shouldn't have worn a girly skirt. He'll never believe I want to learn to use a bow.

"How can I help you kids?"

"We'd like to know how much two bows and two dozen arrows will cost." Brave James. Always the one to keeps his cool when I can't.

"I'll need to see state identification first."

I get out my wallet and pull out the state ID I got with my driving permit and hand it to the man. James just shrugs and turns his pockets inside out. He left home without his wallet. Again. It only has his school ID anyway.

The man examines the card for a second, then looks up at me, trying to match the face in the picture with the face in front of him. I had a bad hair _and_ makeup day when they took that picture.

"Hold on just a sec. Let me check something." The tattooed man goes back into the storeroom and comes back a minute later. "Main office says to get rid of all current stock ASAP because there's newer, better stuff coming in soon. I'll give you four bows of different strengths, three dozen arrows, and two pairs of guards for ten dollars. No tax."

"Deal." I hand him the money and take the equipment before the government decides to change its mind. As it is, we are probably on camera right now and they already know we know that the Hunger Games will happen. Maybe they will think Mom told me; I hope they don't hurt her.

I feel weird walking out of the store sharing the burden of four bows, two quivers of arrows, and a bag of arm and hand guards with James. What is Mom going to say when she sees me dump this stuff in my room?

"So… Where and when do we start practicing?" James asks.

"Tomorrow. We can go to the old shooting range just outside of town."

"But it closed three years ago." When Hunger Games archery nerds became too scarce to keep it in business.

"We can jump the fence. Sort of like Katniss and Gale going outside of District 12 to hunt. As for how to get there, we can run like we're being bombed with giant fireballs in a highly flammable forest. It'll be good practice."

"How do you do it?"

"What?"

"How are you managing to cope enough in that short amount of time to formulate a plan and start making jokes? My head is still spinning."

"My head is still spinning, too, James." Though it's not entirely from the news about the Hunger Games.

"Right." I can tell, though, that he's trying really hard now not to freak out. I've never actually seen James cry, but he looks like he could now. I just want to hold him from now until they break us apart for the Hunger Games.

At this point, you may be wondering if this can get any more sappy and dumb. But I'm telling you, it's all true! How do I know this isn't just a normal teenage crush?

1. teenage crushes don't last for two years.

2. there's too much emotion in this for it to be temporary.

3. I just know, okay?

"So where are we going to put this stuff?"

"Where does Katniss hide her stuff? Outside the District." I don't know how I came up with that so quickly.

"No way. I am _not _walking all the way across town with this."

"Bike?"

"No. It's nearly five miles each way, and 90 degrees out here."

"Point taken." At this point, I could make a comment about his raised eyebrows, but I won't, for your sake. "How about we split this and go home?"

"An excellent suggestion."

I get the first and third lightest bows, because (and we both agreed on this) even though I may be a track star, James has a lot more arm strength than I do. We each get a quiver of arrows and a pair of guards. I don't know about James, but I'm planning to practice some shooting tonight.

"Library!" I exclaim. You can't really shoot if you don't know how.

"I'll meet you at your house at" –he takes a look at his digital watch— "one o'clock. Okay?"

"Yeah." We walk silently back to our street. We pass James's house first, so I walk the final nine blocks alone, carrying two bows, a quiver of arrows slung over my shoulder, and a plastic bag whose handles are making my wrist sweat.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: This is all OCs, except for some mention of Hunger Games characters. The main reason this is a fanfic is because the idea of the Hunger Games is not mine. Also, this is not meant as an insult to the government or anybody working for any government. It is merely an extreme what-if exploration. That said, I hope you like the story.**

Chapter Five: (sarcastically because what isn't with me?) These happy golden years

That's actually the title of a really, really old book I found in the "Ancients" section of the library a long time ago. I don't know what it's about, but it seemed like a very ironic title for this chapter of my life

We go to the library to look for books about archery. We pass the "Ancients" section and I see the title of that book again.

We find the book that says everything there is to know about survival: edible plants, hunting, shooting, fire building, knife throwing, strength building exercises, how to find and purify water (very important), and really anything else you would need to know in order to survive the Hunger Games. On the back cover is a picture of a guy in his late thirties with short black hair and a goatee; he's the author, though his name isn't anywhere on the book. Odd.

_And_ there are no library tags or barcodes.

We ask the librarian and she says we can just keep it.

I have a feeling that book wasn't just coincidentally on a shelf in the public library in Smalltown, Vermont. Especially when I see the publication year is 2110. That's this year. Definitely not a coincidence.

* * *

Summer Exercise Logs:

Day 1:

Sprinted 2 blocks, had to slow down to jog. This is harder than track. I guess I'm not used to long distances.

Carrying bow, arrows, guards, water bottle, lunch.

Stopped halfway because I got tired. Went back home.

Practiced shooting in James's backyard. It's way harder than Katniss makes it look.

0 Bullseyes so far.

Day 2:

Work. Brought equipment with me. Shot at hay bales during lunch break.

Boss says I can spray paint a target on if I want. Found spray paint in a shed and did just that.

5:00 pm Ran a few blocks with James, carrying gear to get used to it. We've decided to gradually increase our distance over time. I knew we weren't going to make it 10 miles the first day. Give it 2 years.

James shoots in his backyard in the mornings when it's cool outside.

0 Bullseyes

Day 23:

Work.

Training a yearling with Holly, the expert.

5:00 pm drove the car to mark a mile. Ran it in 8 minutes flat. James got 7:30. He should join the track team.

Shot more arrows in James's backyard.

1 Bullseye!

Day 24:

Work. Another bullseye.

Yearlings can be really stubborn! Holly says I have to be with a horse from the beginning in order to truly understand them.

Gave 20 horses baths using kids shampoo. Too tired to run.

Day 124:

Work. Can reliably hit a bullseye, but it takes some time to aim.

Ran for half an hour with James. Planning to "exit District 12" on Saturday, because James has homework during the week and I really don't want to go alone.

Studying the chapter about water. Already read the whole book through once. It's about 1000 pages. That includes visuals, diagrams, charts, and, of course, words.

Planning to switch to heavier bow next week.

Day 126:

Ran to archery range. Ate lunch outside the fence.

Smart James brought wire cutters. There's barbed wire on the top of the fence, so he cut an opening at the bottom. Squeezed through without backpack, then passed it through the opening separately.

Shot for an hour. Outdoor targets are intact but the paint is faded. Good thing I brought some (found it in the garage; Dad doesn't know I took it).

Grass is overgrown, but that's ok.

Walked home. Too tired and hot to run.

Mom says I start community college classes online next Saturday.

* * *

As you can see, eat sleep, run, shoot, and read is all I do now. That's not counting the time I spend working with the horses, taking the college courses, and (sorry I had to mention it) wishing James would like me back. I know I'm pathetic.

After the first summer, I stop wearing girly skirts and adopt a more practical style that I'll just have to get used to: plain t-shirt, cargo pants that let me move, and boots with ankle and arch support. The first time James sees me in the outfit, when we run together to the archery range for the third or fourth time, he says, "Why didn't you braid your hair, Katniss?"

Who am I kidding? I'm not Katniss. I can never be that good. I've had a much easier life. And I've got about as much chance of stopping the Hunger Games as the mockingjay pin on my shirt has of spontaneously bursting into flames.

"Because I can't braid my own hair like Katniss," I answer. "All my attempts at braids turn out crappy."

"Here." He comes around me, takes my hair out of its ponytail, and proceeds to do my hair in a Dutch braid.

When he finishes, I run my hand along it. "Where did you learn to do _this_?" Most guys don't even know what the heck a braid _is_, I think.

"My mom taught me and made me practice doing her hair. She said 'One day, James, you'll need to braid some rope or do your girlfriend's hair or something. Believe me, braiding is a life skill.'"

I laugh, though I'm internally blushing. "How long ago was that?"

"Freshman year. But she makes me keep practicing."

"So I'm a blonde Katniss Everdeen right now. Fair enough. Shall we go hunt outside District 12, Gale?" I almost said Peeta, but decided against it.

"Indeed we shall."

* * *

I don't know if that year and a half brought us closer or caused us to drift apart. I know I was always happy when he was there (I'm still always happy when he's there, for some odd reason); he makes the concept of the Hunger Games seem more bearable, because I know I'll have a friend to watch my back in the arena.

But I don't know what he feels. For a long time, I thought of him as a puppy, happy all the time just because, but now it seems like the puppy was forced to grow up too fast. He's charred and different. I hate to see him so serious when normally he would be telling a joke every moment.

Half a year before the Reaping (we assume), James and I decided to test our skills and what we've learned.

We each tell our parents we're going to a sleepover with friends and we'll be back in the morning when we walk home. Instead, at five o'clock that evening we set off for the archery range with our bows, water, sleeping bags, and some food.

After running five miles, we rest for a little while, discussing how we think it will actually be in the Hunger Games when we have to really run for our lives and how this "simulation" is nothing like what the real thing will be. Oh well.

We shoot until the sun goes down, sometimes throwing things like clumps of dirt and shooting at those for practice with moving targets. I'm getting pretty good at predicting where something will go.

We eat a meager supper of half a bagel each. Then we talk until we both start yawning too frequently.

So we tuck ourselves into the sleeping bags in T-formation on the overgrown grass that had better hide us from passersby on the road.

"Hey, Liz?" James calls from a little left of my feet.

"Yeah?"

"You do realize that if it's really cold in the arena at night, um, we probably won't be sleeping in a T-formation."

"Yes, James. But we already said this isn't a very accurate simulation. We're not in the arena quite yet. Besides, you might rather freeze to death than be kicked to death in the middle of the night, because I kick in my sleep."

James shifts further away from the foot of my sleeping bag. "Hey, Liz?" he asks again a few moments later.

"Still here."

"Do you think the other kids are really going to go along with this and willingly kill each other?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Nobody seems to get it anymore. They don't get what it means to kill because society has made it less of a big deal over the years. How many video games don't involve violence, other than dance, sports, and Mario Kart?"

"Not many."

"Exactly. So kids are going to pick up a sword, swing it around like their favorite character, kill somebody with it, and still think it's just a game, and that they didn't just cut a young _life_ short." Maybe that's why it's called the Hunger _Games_.

"This really makes me worried."

"Me too, James."

"No, not just about what will happen in the arena; I'm worried about what's going to happen to our world if things like this continue to be okay."

"Yeah."

We just lay there looking at the stars for a long time. It's so dark out here. I mean, I can see where the town is, but only because there's a corona of light coming over the archery office like an eclipse.

"Liz?"

"I'm _still here_."

"Right. I know. Do you ever think of how awkward it will be to live in the wilderness of the arena?"

"You mean like 'going on the go' and stuff while America—excuse me, _Panem_—is watching?"

"Yeah. Stuff like that."

"Well I doubt anyone would want to see that, so they would probably shut off that camera for a little bit."

"Good thing, but it's not as if we all want to see kids kill each other either." He pauses. "You know, this really is a _bad_ simulation of the Hunger Games. We have food."

"We might have food in the arena. Maybe our stylist will get us lots of sponsors. It's still fun, right? Sleeping under the stars?"

"You could call it that." Crickets.

"James, do you ever think—like, _really think_—about exactly how scary this is going to be?"

"I've tried. And I feel really scared already. I keep getting more and more scared as time runs out. What are we going to do? There can only be one victor."

"We'll stop the Games before it's down to the last few of us."

"Liz?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm scared."

He says it so sincerely I wonder if he's tearing up inside his sleeping bag, and if it weren't so dark I might go over there and hug him and tell him it's all going to be okay like he did for me the day I told him about the Hunger Games.

But because it's so dark, I just sigh and say, "Me too, James. I'm really scared too."


End file.
